Fractal Custodial Grandparenting

This morning, as I was finishing up my bathroom routine, the 7 yr old kidlet peeked her earnest little face around the bathroom door, with a smile on it, and hiding something in her hands.

She was in her pajamas, which was NOT good.  I said “Why aren’t you dressed for school? We have to leave in like five minutes!”

Then, the fact that she was hiding something in her hands, partially shielded by her body (which was itself, partially shielded by the wall) finally made its way through the passages of my brain which were now activated by one very strong cup of Starbucks French roast coffee.

“What are you hiding?”  “Wait, come back here, come BACK here!”

She peeked around the door again, grinning and holding up a $50.00 bill.

“Is that a 50?  Where did you get a FIFTY?”  She ran. 

“Really, come back here.”  She did.  So I asked her why she had a fifty dollar bill. No answer.  She is scared now.  So I said “Honey, I am not mad at you, but 7 yr olds don’t normally HAVE a fifty dollar bill, so Meemaw needs to know where you got it from.”

Turns out, the other day, I sent her into the bedroom where my purse resides when I am at home, to get a five out to send to school for her upcoming field trip. She saw that I had several 50’s in my change purse where I keep my money.  She thought, in her 7 yr old way, that since I had several of them, I could CERTAINLY spare one of them for her.

Problem was, she forgot to mention it to anyone.

Now, I knew I was missing a fifty.  I am pretty careful with my money.  I don’t spend unnecessarily, and I normally don’t lose money.  I used to think my mind was going. It really worried me a lot, because, I was, in fact, losing money often.  Then, (as it turns out) I discovered that the junkie daughter was removing money from my wallet.  Imagine that.  So I wasn’t losing my memory or my mind. That did make me feel better about aging, didn’t make me feel better about my daughter one bit.

Of course, I called DH and said, “I am missing money again, ask her if she took it from my wallet.”  She denied it.  I let it go, because, well, what would I do?  She is pregnant and on methadone.  I already know I cannot put her out on the street, if she doesn’t get either heroin or methadone, she will lose the baby.  So, until we can find a program that will take her for residential treatment, I am stuck with her. She knows I don’t want her in the house, I know it, it is just what it is.

I took the 7 yr old onto my lap.  I explained that even though it SEEMED like Meemaw and Pappy had lots and lots of money, and could certainly spare a fifty for my oldest granddaughter, that, in fact, I had really needed that money.

I talked about stealing, and almost stealing.  I talked about her ‘joking’ me.  She tends to think that if her motives aren’t mean, that it is a joke, and not a sin.  Typical 7 yr old logic.

I explained that this week, I needed gas money, food money and money to buy medicine as everyone in the home is sick but me and the kidlets.  I explained that yesterday, when I went to the grocery store to purchase something for dinner and cat food, that I only had $27.00 on me, and was therefore, quite limited as to my choices.

Sigh. She said “But Meemaw, you and pappy get THOUSANDS of dollars a month.”  True. Not THAT many thousands, but true nonetheless.  I explained that to run our home takes 60 fifty dollar bills every month.  And that we needed every single one of them to keep things like water, gas for the furnace and dryer, and electric for the lights, TV, computer, etc working. That we didn’t get those things just because we needed them.

Reality rears it’s ugly head.

Then the baby, well, she went to her allowance jar and made me take ALL THE PENNIES she had so that she could contribute to the electric bill.

Tonight, I will sit her down on my lap and explain why she can keep her pennies, and if she insists, I will take them to mass tomorrow morning and give them to the church.

Oh, and I did apologize to the junkie daughter for accusing her.

And I have on MEN’s Levi’s today.  (smiling).

It’s raining and I am having an anxiety attack. Sometimes, I just HATE being me.

4 Comments

I hate my clothes today.  Getting up in the morning is hard enough. Then, you have to get dressed.

As a society we are all judged by various and sundry items.  One, the clothing you wear.  Now, I am an old hippie.  Dressing up in high school was totally verboten.  You just simply didn’t do it.  A pair of well worn levi’s was the standard. Any t-shirt thrown on worked.  If it was raw in a few places, okay for that.

We used to buy the Levi’s brand new. Back then, you couldn’t purchase jeans of ANY brand that were pre-washed, stone ground or distressed.  You had to do it yourself.

My particular methodology for breaking in a new pair of jeans was as follows, and I did it RELIGIOUSLY.

First, wash in the hottest water possible. Remember, Levi’s back then were 100% cotton denim. They shrunk in certain places, and in very predictable ways.  You always purchased Levi’s by waist/length back then. They didn’t even MAKE Levi’s for women yet, so every girl knew her men’s Levi size.  The jeans would shrink exactly ONE INCH in the waist and TWO inches in the length.

Then, put them on and up to soapbox hill after a good rain.  We lived in Northern California back then, and rain was somewhat predictable.  At that point, drink a bit of good, cheap Red Mountain Wine, ($.99 a gallon) and roll down soapbox hill and mudslide for about, oh, three hours or so.

Come home COVERED in slimy, gooey, mud.  Take the jeans off in the garage and prop them against the garage wall, for about a week or so.  Go in and take a shower.

Next week, take the jeans and put them out in the driveway or any other graveled location.  Lay them out most carefully to not knock the mud off.  Drive over them again and again.  Really GRIND them into the gravel.  Get out, turn them over. Do it over and over on the other side.

Take back into garage and leave for another week, to, you know, age them.

Wash in HOT water six times with a bit of bleach. Dry in dryer as hot as the heat will get.  Put them on each night for two weeks and wear them to bed.  (they were all button fly back then, and it was VERY IMPORTANT that the buttons opened with one jerk).

Finally, after ALL of that, you could actually WEAR the jeans to school.

But now. Age 51.  Still in Levi’s. Still in button fly. But now, I buy them predone.  Now, I wear them with a nice shirt and a blazer.  Don’t you LOVE blazer’s?  They turn any pair of jeans into a semi formal acceptable business wear outfit.

Well, at least at MY job I can wear them as semi formal business wear.

My daughter in law gave me two pair of Levi’s the other night.  It’s rather funny, she brought them in, happy that she had two pairs of actual Levi’s for me. She looked at the tags and said, One a size 10 and the other a size 13.  My husband and son burst out laughing.

Not because of the sizes, per se.  Because they were (sit down) WOMAN’S JEANS.  My son kindly told his new wife, “She has NEVER worn a pair of women’s Levi’s in her life.” The poor child looked confused.

They (boy and hubby) both know my male Levi size.  I am a perfect 34/30.  Sad, isn’t it?

I put the size 13 on this morning.  Now I know why I wear MEN’s Levi’s.

Women’s simply do NOT fit my weird body.  I have NO BUTT.  I have instead, all the stuff that SHOULD be on my butt, on my lower belly.   AS in below the belly button. Gross, I know.  Oh, I am not THAT fat that I will cause a car wreck crossing the street when people turn their heads to stare.  Fact is, I don’t even look fat. But, trust me, I am.

Men’s jeans fit my body. Simple as that.  I got the size 13’s on, zipped and am wearing them.  But there is this THING (they call it now a muffin top, because it is all the fat that the jeans have muuushed up out of the top of your jeans and which is now spilling over just like the muffin batter out of the cupcake pan), this HUGE roll of fat hanging out of the top of my jeans.

I feel rather like a sausage.  So I had to find a top that DID NOT show the fat roll. The muffin top.  The grossness.

Finally, four shirts later, I found something that almost, but not entirely, didn’t HIDE it at all. Fortunately, I had a red blazer which coordinated well with the offending top and hid the bulge which wasn’t hidden by the top. 

And, fortunately the high today is only 57, so I should be able to keep the blazer on all day.

At that point, I ran a brush through my hair, brushed my teeth, forget totally about make-up, because after all THAT trauma, I couldn’t POSSIBLY deal with all that and off to work I went.

I do look in the mirror occasionally, and I will NEVER been seen in spandex. EVER. I did, the other day, unknowingly commit the ultimate faux pas.  I wore my FAVORITE 14 year old Levi’s.  Unbeknownst to me, there were two holes in the back, you know, right on the inside of the back where the back pockets are sewn on.  And, I had on PINK underwear.

You can dress me up, but you cannot take me out.

Ah well. Life is like that.

Happy hump day everyone.

4 Comments

2 Comments

Gak !  I am so totally decadent, or maybe not decadent. Techno. Nope. Um…..weird?  Maybe.

Sundays, public tv, laptop, bath, starbucks home brewed coffee, (no wine, it’s only 9 am), my favorite cat on the ledge of the tub.

Laptopping in the tub with color digital tv and a remote.

I have achieved nirvana.

The junkie daughter is in the kitchen, playing at being supermom, betty crocker and Susie homemaker all at once.  Other than wanting to vomit, I am also grateful that she is in there, and I am in here.

Last night, before bed, I made an announcement to the 17 yr old that since she was such a super daughter and I was such a giving mother, that she was going to get up with the babies for me in the morning so that I could sleep in.

After her outraged cry of “nnoooooooooo,&rdqu o; I went to bed.  And slept in this morning.  Clear to 8 am.

There are certain things I really like to do on Sunday mornings.  Spend an hour on the toity, drinking coffee and watching Norm Abrams and the New Yankee Workshop.  I am a New Englander.  Born and partially raised on Cape Cod.  I grew up watching This Old House and Norm Abrams. I love him.  He can fix anything. He has taught me much.

I like not being rushed in the mornings.  I really don’t do mornings well.  I think that mornings only exist to keep late night and afternoon from bumping into each other each day.

Life has thrust me, complaining and screaming all the way into having to do mornings.  HOW RUDE !!

I should have been born independently wealthy. Oh. Wait. I was born that way. Shit.  I forgot, I walked away from all that at the age of 13.  Independently wealthy is not all it’s cracked up to be.  But the wealth part of it is nice.  Sometimes I miss that. Other times, I realize how shallow an existence my parents lived, and am extremely happy that I do not participate in that lifestyle.  My children, however, are NOT happy about not participating.  They have grown up with a Mom who could easily make ¾ of a million dollars a year, and chooses not to.  They think that my aberration of morals is wrong. WRONG.

The junkie got up this morning and went to the methadone clinic. Came home and complained that she had tried calling us to tell us that there was a nail in the tire of her Dad’s car, and NO ONE answered the phone.

No ONE got up with the baby.  She was outraged.  Of course, the baby monitor was on, the baby had been in and out of our bed for two hours, and earlier when I said I slept in till 8 am, it was really wishful thinking.  I did however, STAY in bed till 8 am.  And, the baby is 4 years old.  AND, there were two teenagers in the same room, sleeping on the sofa and recliner respectively.

Note. When laptopping in the tub, move VERY slowly when you change position.  There is this thing called physics of motion which causes water to move when you do.  And, not to mention that the laptop is expensive, AND more importantly, plugged into ELECTRICITY (see former posts about my lack of knowledge regarding electricity).  Be very, very careful.

The junkie can really piss me off.  She forgets all the times she was in a heroin stupor and I parented her children, finally to the point where I took them away from her.  She does this thing where she gets on a high horse and becomes super person, and then runs around the house bitching about everyone.  She doesn’t realize she does this.

I finally gave up yesterday and took the kids outside in the barely rain. Dressed appropriately, and let them play for 2 hours.  The whining stopped.  The other caregivers in my home aren’t smart enough to put two and two together and come up with a reasonably accurate answer when involving small children.  Most of the time, kids don’t whine unless they are sick, or bored. That is why there is an “outside” to go to.

Yesterday, I fixed the dishwasher.  Another example of brain dead family.  I turned it on and immediately realized it was making the wrong noises.  No one else did.  They had been bitching for two days that the dishwasher wasn’t cleaning the dishes well. Their answer?  Keep running it over and over on the same dishes.  The merest thought of perhaps washing them by hand had not even speculated about wandering through their brains.

I am not a rocket scientist.

I opened the dishwasher. Water in the bottom. AT the beginning of the cycle.  My logical, well organized brain (this is sarcasm guys) jumped to the conclusion that one of two possible things were happening inside the mystery of the dishwasher.  One, the pump is gone.  Two, the outlet is clogged.

I spun the dial around to the drain spot where there was some movement of water, though not a lot.

So, it is situation Two then.

After two hours of spinning the dial around to the drain spot, it finally got rid of the water in the bottom.  Lift out the bottom rack.  Find the screwdriver that accepts a bit that accepts the metal thingy that FITS the hex bolts that hold the screen thingy in the bottom of the dishwasher. Take it off.  Of course, the batteries are dead on the screwdriver. But they work anyway if you lock them in position and turn the whole flipping thing. Which I did.

Stick my hand down in there, and Yeppers.  Crud blocking the outlet.  Mom’s are the only people on the planet that will clean crud for free.

Put it all back together. Eureka!! It works.  Start it. Go to bed.

Now, the son and d-i-l were making apple pies. At 1 am.  They did not empty the dishwasher. Both sinks were full of dishes this morning.

This offended the junkie.  Who burst into my bathroom to complain.  Who was promptly told, empty it then.

No sympathy on a Sunday morning when you violate the sanctity of my bathroom.

Water in my bath is cold. I am letting it out, to then just sit here in the empty tub and let me air dry.  Air drying your body is a waste of time that I absolutely LOVE.

I am remembering a conversation with my youngest. About, um..five years ago. In my mother in laws bathroom, upstairs.  We were talking about the junkie daughter.  She was very frustrated at the fact that we were letting her live with us while going through the first methadone treatment program.

I can be very cold sometimes.  I told her that, at times, I hated my daughter.  I asked her, “which would you rather do, cry at her funeral and wish that we had done ANYTHING and EVERYTHING within our power to save her so she wouldn’t be dead, or just buck up and help her and hope it works?”

Sometimes, as a parent, you have to make really hard choices. Sometimes, you are wrong. You never really know though, because we are not God.

So, we still help the junkie. Until the new baby is born. That is where I have finally drawn the line.  The other children are safely in our custody now. The new baby CAN be in our custody if necessary.

She will be cut loose and kicked out after the baby is born.  Either grow up or not, your choice.  But she will finally walk that road alone.

1 Comments

Saturday mornings can quickly go sour. Doesn’t take a whole lot. Take one grumpy grandma and two whiny kids. Bingo. Sucky Saturday arrives.

I am not sure what relationship there is between a child’s temperament and the weather, but there most definitely is one. 

I love cold, rainy days.  Days when the sky is a mottled grey, clouds moving along nicely.  Very occasionally a glimpse of blue, but no bright sun to glare in your early eyes.  Days when I can throw up the windows and let fresh, cool air right into my home. Free, fresh, cool air.  Air that doesn’t need to be heated or cooled to be comfortable.

Children, on the other hand, HATE them.  To them, my mottled grey clouds who move along in interesting patterns are a harbinger of disaster.  I think they wake up and immediately get SADS. What the heck is that anyway.  For years and years everyone knew that when winter and the resulting grey skies came, well, some of us got a bit blue, as in depressed.

Now, they name a freakin syndrome after it. Seasonally Acquired Depression Syndrome.  They tell you to increase the amount of sunlight by installing an artificial sun lamp in your home and expose yourself to it for 10 hours per day.

Right.  Like I am gonna DO that.

Noses run, tempers flare, the WHINE MONSTER attacks beautiful, sleeping babies while they dream and they awaken to turn into absolute HORRORS of snivel.

And you, me, the caretaker, mommy, grandmother, pappy, whomever, will give into them for just about ANYTHING they want for a number of reasons, the first and primary of which is to SHUT THEM UP.  Their little whinyness starts at the base of your spine and CRAWLS up right into the muscles between your shoulder blades and quickly moves on to the back of your skull where you end up with a pounding headache for the rest of the day.  Needing quiet, you don’t get it.

Other family members quickly jump on the whiny wagon,  and they complain about the children complaining about everything. Then, they start snapping at YOU, as if it is somehow YOUR fault that the kids are whine monsters today.

Right now, I have fond memories of my first two children, back when I was a single parent, with no older children around, no one to report to.  I could just let the whine monster work through the angst until the children approached human.

Me, of course, having no one at all to whine to, must blog about it.  Life in the 21^st century.

I have noticed other things that we used to take for granted and which are now HUGE.  They also are related to small children.

What used to be called a bad cold is now called RSV and they hospitalize babies for it.  It can be fatal.  They hospitalize them so that they can monitor their breathing.

Moms used to do that.  I can remember tenting a baby in a swing under a sheet and putting the humidifier under the tent to keep the secretions liquid in the baby’s nose.  Then, you followed that with sucking the secretions out with a little blue bulb every ½ hour or so.  Meanwhile you gave the baby antibiotics to keep the infection down.

Apparently, that wasn’t good enough.  Now they put the babies in the hospital and do virtually the same thing. Only, as in more than a few things, it is somehow much more serious now and costs lots of money.

Stress.  We have always had it.  We had other ways of dealing with it.  Work. Physical work. Every mother knows about this, whether consciously or unconsciously. Stressed out? Clean your house.  Slam cupboards. Run the sweeper. Clean out drawers.

It’s a mom thing.  If you cannot arrange your life to suit you, at least you can arrange and clean your HOUSE.  And, it helps.

Life used to be busy.  Just keeping food on the table and the bills paid required physical work.  Farmers by group have more stress than any executive, and yet, I think if they took a poll, they are on less anxiety medication than anyone.  Because, farmers are still up with the sun, into overalls and feeding/milking/caring for stock.  Or planting/weeding/fertiliz ing.  Or both.  In the off season, mending fences, doing farm stuff that got put aside during lambing season.

But we don’t do much physical work anymore. Desk jobs are the rule.  And so we take anxiety drugs and don’t exercise.

Off to karate.  Sucky Saturday.

1 Comments

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day.  She just built a new house.  The other day, her Aunt was in town and her mother wanted to come out for a visit and show off the new house.  It was my friend’s day off. She just wanted to stay at home, do some laundry and sluff off being nice, being pretty, being anything but in old sweats.  She told her mom that too. But, they came anyway.

When she was telling me about the visit, she said to me “you know, how you like to have an apple pie in the oven cooking when someone comes over to visit..”

HELLLOOOOO.  I am just glad if the dog doesn’t take a dump on the floor right before the doorbell rings!!  Apple pie? 

Most of my friends have a broken home. The dishwasher is broken, or the microwave, or the doorbell.   In my home, most of the residents are broken.  Or, at least their legs and arms are.

I am trying to get the kidlets to achieve some independence and chores.  It works really well when I have the money to do the chore chart.  But, when I am out of one’s (I feel like I should be visiting a male stripper the way I collect ones), well, the chore chart suffers.

And, you know what?  I don’t even care.  I’m tired when I come home. Why aren’t the kids tired too?  I don’t want to do MY chores, so why should I push them to do THEIR chores?  Well, because, darn it, that’s what the manual says we should do, isn’t it?

Do all mom’s spend their money intentionally breaking large bills so they have lots of ones and fives in their wallets?  I know I do, that way if I have to give a kidlet money, I can count out ones or give them a five.  You NEVER get change back.  So, knowing that in advance, I will NEVER EVER give a child a $20.  If they needed 10 cents and all I had was a $20 bill, I would write a check for the 10 cents.  Because, whatever age, whatever the need, they will FIND a reason they had to spend the rest of the money and “Oh, sorry Mom, I had to use the change for (_______  insert any excuse…).

Even the grown ones. Wait. ESPECIALLY the grown ones. They get smarter and smarter about how to get the bucks from good old Bank of Mom !

My oldest daughter and I trade money constantly.  We go shopping, and I see something for the baby that I want to buy, so she whips it on her visa which has a lower interest rate than my visa.

Then, when the next opportunity comes, we are like, well, I owe you 33.75 from the trip to Walmart, and you asked me to get you soymilk and strawberry syrup and pork chops, so that is 10.53 from 33.75, so I still owe you about  23ish, but I paid for your daughters yearbook which was 20 last year and forgot to tell you, so I really only owe you 3 dollars, but the baby needed water at karate and I took her to BK for dinner that day, so that was 7 dollars, so you owe me 4.

Then she comes back with something else.  We have never been able to figure it out and never will and yet, we keep doing it week after week.  I wonder why?  It drives her husband and my husband both nuts.  Maybe that is why.  It doesn’t really bother her or I one bit.

I have to lock my car now.  Someone at karate last week got their car stolen. And totaled. They are driving a new Dodge something or other now.  I cannot afford to have my car stolen, even if I do have full coverage.  So, no more leaving my purse in the unlocked car with the keys still in it.  Can you believe there is a town in 2006 where until last week that was relatively safe to do?  I love the United States.

Tomorrow is Saturday.  Its cold and rainy here.  I am glad.  Today is the first day of fall, and darn it, it is SUPPOSED to be cold and rainy during fall. Its one of my favorite times of year.  I hate summer.  Don’t mind winter a whole lot.  Can live comfortably with spring.  LOVE FALL.

Had to explain to the oldest grandkidlet today on the way to school why Alaska is dark for four months out of the year.  I am going to start carrying a ball in the car, because I found out it is very difficult to drive and try to explain the rotation of the Earth with one hand. It just simply doesn’t work.

And, is Alaska also LIGHT for four months on the other end of the year?  I don’t remember that part.  Ah well.

Have a great fall weekend.

0 Comments

Contrary to popular belief, I am still kicking. Not well particularly, somedays not even functioning, but still around.

Today, the oldest kidlet got to school on time.  Now, in any other family that might not be a reason to write a column, celebrate or even take note of the event. However, as my readers know, we are NOT any other family.

Her mother, the junkie, is now in methadone treatment.  Her mother, the junkie is almost 6 months pregnant.  Her mother, the junkie, was found to be using again 3 weeks ago, hence my absence from writing. Sorry.  I think I have the situation under control, but I am probably wrong.

The private catholic school that the kidlet attends locks all the doors at 8:15 am, when the late bell rings.   To get in, you have to ring a buzzer, answer the intercom and then be buzzed in. Today is Thursday, and every other day for the last week and a half, she has been late, getting to school AFTER the doors are locked.  It is somewhat chilly this morning, and so, the door which is normally cocked open until after the late bell, was, well, closed – you know, to keep the heat in and all that.

My darling got out of the car, walked up to the door and stood there.  She pressed the buzzer and nothing happened.  I had to roll the window down and shout out to her that all she had to do was open the door. She was confused.  Poor baby.

She is late because we are down to one RUNNING car in our family. Well, two actually, but one belongs to my new daughter-in-law (ex niece), and well, they sort of need their car to go to and from work.

My trusty Grand Am, my beautiful running forever baby that gets 35 mpg has a huge hole in the radiator.  You may remember the story of the hot water heater and the thermostat from last week?  Well, I never DID get the bloody dang thermostat in my car changed and so, the result was a blowout in the radiator.  Although I tried and tried to patch it with 3 tubes of good old JB WELD (highly recommended) and the JB Weld DID in fact get me the 40 miles home, the car was very overheated in the driveway as we pulled up, steaming wickedly and really impressively too.  Anyway, the junkie has to take the PT Cruiser (dear hubby’s ride) the hour drive every morning to the methadone clinic, and then get BACK home before me and the kidlet have to leave at 7:30 am.

Obviously, THAT is not working out well.  All the plastic is maxed for the month.  It is costing me $10 a day in gas for her to go to the methadone clinic. I don’t HAVE $10 a day to pay for the gas.  Still, I manage to keep coming up with it.  The cable was shut off temporarily.  The gas may be, that is still iffy.

Isn’t life exciting?

My son got married Saturday last.  We all wore jeans.  The bride wore a lovely plum sweater.  It was during our local Johnny Appleseed Festival.  The mother, father and sister of the groom attended.  The groom wore his best striped not too wrinkled shirt and his least objectionable jeans.

They are very much in love, and cute as hell.  I can’t WAIT for the babies to start appearing.  Out of all the things I have done in my life, I love being a grandmother most of all.  Piss off to every other role in the world. Grandparenting ROCKS!!

We have a family joke now.  The bride is my biological niece. The groom is my step son.  They grew up not even knowing about each other, the bride residing in the Sacramento area of California all her life until moving out to Morgantown WV when she was 18, where we met up for the SECOND time, I was there at her birth.

For a year, they became the closest of cousin/friends.  Then, she moved up here in with us.  And they fought the attraction, which was futile.  It really was love at first sight for both of them and they fit like two pieces of a puzzle. 

She now has a ‘CUSBAND’.  He has a Wousin.  I have a Neighter.  My husband, not liking Neighter got a Naughter.  My daughter has a Cister. We can be very silly sometimes.  We love our girl however, whatever we call her.  I am very happy that they are together, as they now have the chance to have what others only wish for most of the time, what my husband and I have, and they don’t have to wait YEARS to find it.

The babies are well. The littlest started Head Start this week. She loves it. She gets to ride a BUS !!  Busses are the coolest thing around when you are under the age of 8.  She loves her new teacher and her new classroom and the new bus. Everything about school. They gave her a new backpack, it is clear plastic. She likes her Disney princess one better, but they are not allowed.  I thought, how weird that they require a clear (read see through) backpack for 4 year olds, then remembered that a little boy brought a gun to a Head Start last year. Sad, isn’t it?

Still, the school year is now officially under way.  My car will get fixed.  The junkie will move out.  Life, which is often unpredictable, usually funny, sometimes poignant, and always, always interesting will return to whatever is normal for us.

And, the Frac is back!

2 Comments

Normal, is only a setting on my dryer.

I am wondering today just really, what is normal.  If anyone would look at the outside of me, of my life, they would say – normal.

How funny is that.

I am 51, professional, have a law degree from a college just barely below Ivy League, that I have NEVER once used.  I work for slightly over $8 bucks an hour because I work for my best friend, who is a successful businesswoman.  She is successful because she notoriously underpays her staff.  I am married to a man who has been a disabled veteran since he was 19 years old.  I live in a $100 thousand dollar home, but right now my cable/land line phone is shut off for non payment.  My mortgage is paid though.  My electric is paid. The gas?? Well, it isn’t very much, so it slipped.  Right now we are paying for the daughter to go to a methadone clinic and the gas is about $70 a week.  That’s $280 a month that I don’t really have, but have to come up with anyway.

I have a number of children, hard to describe.  My oldest two are biological.  One of them is successfully married to a guy in the service, going to nursing school and carrying a 3.8 G.P.A. She has a daughter age 5 who has severe gastroparesis.  Her digestive system doesn’t work. It is horrid.  Oh, and the daughter? She was born brain damaged.  They said she wouldn’t graduate high school, much less go on to college with a 3.8, and it is NOT special classes.  She is in college for her R.N.

The second biological child was extremely gifted.  The star of the high school and the perfect kid growing up.  She has two children that she has lost custody of (to us) and is pregnant with a third, (different father) and, she is a heroin addict.

My third child I didn’t give birth to.  My husband’s ex wife did.  But, he is mine.  He is so like me.  Very intelligent, not very motivated when it comes to the ‘normal’ things.  But, when HE wants something, God help anyone who gets in his way.

Saturday, he is marrying my biological niece who is also highly intelligent, pretty and very stubborn.  Her mother was married, I think, 4 times.  Her family is even weirder than mine. 

The baby, also not my biological child is the epitome of the high school, all American girl. She is beautiful, doesn’t care one bit, a senior in high school,  a varsity cheerleader, wears sweat pants inside out to school, talks incessantly, gets average grades, cannot spell to save her life, isn’t really dating anyone yet and drives us all nuts.

A couple of extra kids are now grown as well.  The one who was the only child of a single parent father and was raised on welfare turned out extremely well. She is happily married and the mother to one, step mother to three. 

Another we raised is also happily married to an engineer, mother to two boys, one of whom was born at a mere 4.4 pounds and had a rocky start, the other whom is autistic and just turned three years old.

My best friend is married to an engineer. They have five children, one biological, four adopted, two black, one Hispanic and one American Indian.  The most successful isn’t the biological one.  One of the girls is bipolar with schizoaffective paranoia and has lost custody of her daughter to her parents, who adopted the baby and are raising her.  She is now 10.  Another of their daughters just lost custody of her four children to their father because she turned into an alcoholic.

We are raising a 7 year old granddaughter who was supposed to die the night she was born, and her 4 year old sister who was born addicted to heroin.  Possibly another in a few months.

Our income is between $65k and $110k. 

One of my closer friends is an alcoholic.  She is the manager of a successful ENT’s office.  She drinks two bottles of wine every single night. Her husband is second in charge of the local hospital.  He bartends on the side.  Neither one of their two grown sons is anything to write home about. Both have been arrested for either drunk driving or drugs.

I think I have a point.  No one, anywhere is normal.  I am an average, white, American woman.  And, I have issues, problems and dysfunctionality.  But, if you were to meet me professionally, you would think that I am totally normal, boring and just average.

And I would probably think you were as well. But, I bet you have weirdo’s in your family.  Things you wish were hidden. Relatives that you are ashamed of, or perhaps not.  Fights and funny times to rival the Osborne’s on reality TV.

I think somewhere, Leave it to Beaver got us all confused as to what we were supposed to be like.

But, we are supposed to just be what we are. Unashamedly, normally, just regular folks who are human.

Viva la difference.

1 Comments

1 Comments

Sometimes, well, life just sucks. Really, really bad.  I have had the week from hell.  There just isn’t anything humorous in it. Sorry.  So, I will tell everyone the things that have happened that kept me going.

Briefly, I will tell you of what happened.  The daughter, the one whose children we took away from her is pregnant.  Five months pregnant.  And, she started using heroin again. While pregnant.  There are some things inherent in that decision.  One, a pregnant junkie CAN NOT withdraw without killing the baby.  Two, she is already high risk as she has a bleeding disease similar to hemophilia, the baby will have it as well, her other two daughters do.  Three, she has stage 1 cervical cancer.  Four, she now has sexually transmitted venereal warts.   Five, the nearest methadone clinic is over an hour away. Six, she has no car.  Seven, she has no money. Eight, this is MY grandchild.

How she could put a needle full of heroin into her arm, knowing what she is doing.  This I do not understand.

I wanted to put her ass right out on the street.  Let her go cold turkey.  The doctor friend of mine, who also is her obstetrician, flat out told me the baby would die, and quite probably my daughter as well, the withdrawal would send her into early labor, and the early labor would cause hemorrhaging and the hemorrhage would probably kill her, because the nearest hemophilia treatment center is over an hour away.

Our priest, who called me back from the Pocono mountains where he was vacationing, simply said, you have to do whatever it takes to save the baby.

I can quite honestly say, I now hate my daughter.  Completely. Despise her. Totally. 

Since we cannot get her into the methadone clinic until Monday at the soonest, and since no hospital around here for MILES, and I mean over 100 miles, will give methadone, I was in the position to have to give her money and give her my car to go and get..ya know.

I called the Child Protective Services.  I told them.  They cannot do anything until after the baby is born.

I found a residential treatment in a large city about an hour away.  Methadone, residential.  We are trying to get her into there.  I do not want her here any longer.

So, the anger is deep.  The pain is incredible.  She says she knows she f’d up, I no longer believe her or care.  Next years tax refund is due the end of January. The baby is due the 20^th of January.  I will be giving the whole tax refund to an atty to take the baby away from her.   And then, she will go to the streets.

I told her, you have NO more chances.  After this baby is born, if you are not clean, I will take the baby and you will be dead to me, and to your three children whom I will then raise.

I have a 7 yr old who looks for track marks on her mother’s arms.  A 3 yr old baby who is acting out, by being very clingy to me.  Babies who know the signs of heroin use.  They shouldn’t even know what heroin is, much less be able to tell if their mother is using.

I don’t understand.  I don’t even go to the place where I wonder why out of four children, all raised the same, she is the one who does this.  The same doctor who is a friend of mine, has another doc who is a friend of his.  And HER sister is a heroin addict.  It just crosses all barriers now.

I love the children, the grandgirls enormously.  I did want to be the wonderful grandparent.  Now, instead, at 51, I am raising them, and looking at having a newborn in three months.  I am scared.  My friends say, make her give the baby up for adoption.

I cannot MAKE this child do a damn thing.  Hello.  If I had THAT kind of power, she wouldn’t be a junkie.

This will be my grandchild.  I am not giving my grandchild away. 

Things that helped me out.  ½ bottle of merlot. Why am I not an alcoholic?  But, I am not.  The baby and the way she says Meemom, instead of Meemaw.  The way she says pupcake instead of cupcake, somping instead of something.

The way she hugs me.  The fact that I have to be the one to tuck her into bed everynight, and I have to sing the Lullaby song, which I personalize.  The way she runs in and jumps into our bed in the morning and snuggles down for a 10 minute reprieve while I try valiantly to wake up.

The way my husband smiles at me.  The way his hands still wander over this 51 year old saggy, grey haired old body with lust in his eyes.

The earnestness of the 7 yr old when she asks a question.  The fact that she still needs hugs and kisses to make her feel better.  The way that we have a contest every night to see who loves whom the most, and how I taught her about molecules and atoms that way.  Last night, I loved HER more than all the molecules in all the stars, in all the galaxies, in all the universes.  I thought I had her COLD.  She replied,  “But Meemaw, I love YOU more than all the ATOMS in all the molecules…… ..The fact that she is only 7, but knows what a googleplex is.

The fact that my son, who is 21, knows.  That he will get up out of bed when he is tired just to come and clean the kitchen so I don’t have to.

The fact that his fiancé will come hug me, because she knows what that tightness around my eyes means, and the constant shrugging and stretching of my shoulders means.

The fact that some things are givens.  That MY baby, who is a senior and 17, is totally oblivious to everything that does not concern her. In other words, she is a “typical” teenage, self centered, child.  Or so she wants people to think. She does have feelings and opinions, but she will not show them. Ever.

The fact that my oldest is doing really well, That she is happy. That she is a great mom.  That she married someone who fits into our family.  That their daughter is a beautiful, wonderful child, who brings a smile to my face with her little southern drawl that none of us can figure out came from.  That she drives clear out here to visit regularly.

The fact that my dog, a darling overweight Chihuahua comes into bed every night and warms my behind up by snuggling up to me.  Why on earth she picks my behind I don’t know.  If I was a dog, there are LOTs more places to cuddle up to that would be preferable I would think, but I am not a dog, so maybe THAT is the preferred spot.

The fact that God, even though I have ignored Him lots and lots of times, does not ignore my pleas for peace, for understanding and for patience, and, for strength.

The fact that Pinball Wizard, cranked up REALLY loud, always makes me feel better.  And hearing Paul McCartney sing ANYTHING can stop me cold, bring a smile to my face.

The fact that I have extra kids who love me enough to call me once a week just to make sure I am okay.

I am truly blessed.  Tonight, I will pray for my daughter’s mortal soul.  Please join me. She needs the help.

G’nite.

1 Comments